It’s a mean old scene.

Listen up ya shower of Bastards:  Bradford’s Brilliant.

So I poisoned my household this morning. I mistook daffodil bulbs for onions. No permanent liver damage but some convulsions and vomiting due to alkaloid poisoning.  No deaths.  Being the only carnivore in a house of radicalised vegetarians I find that accidents like this, which can happen all too frequently,  keep me chugging along from day to day.

It’s at this point I normally make myself scarce and get myself down to the Sparrow for a pint or a whisky or both. The Sparrow bar is perfect for a gentle recovery with its unfinished floors and understated chic as it quietly kicks the shit out of every other Belgian Beer Bar worth mentioning.  Ask the Barkeep to wear the crooked hat...  he will know what you mean.

The poster wall near the entrance is possibly the best alternative tourist information point you are likely to find. Good designs in Bradford too... I’m particularly fond of the No-hands posters; last Friday of every month at the Polish on Edmund St. (the eternal rolling after party) and the “Wilful Missing,” Album Launch poster which I’m sure will be an excellent party on the 3^rd at the New Beehive Inn.

Last time I was in the Polish Club we arrived for the after party in a drunken parade with the Horn Dog Brass Band in tow. We were on our way back from the Inflagrante Festival brandishing burning torches looking very much like we were going to crucify Frankenstein. We’d narrowly avoided being stopped by the police (They seemed to accept our lie that this was a council sponsored lynching party) and so we gathered outside chanting: “Were burning down the polish club!” to the frightened faces of alternative youths pressed up against the steamy windows. The`gig was heaving with The Abbots aptly chosen Bands such as the amazingly talented Guitar Orchestra. Later we shook to the dark forces of the 20 piece Drum Machine Ensemble sourced by Miss Musgrave. The uncrowned princes of Bradford with their crew of misfit DJ’s were also cranking it up and up and up and up. Thankfully a friend spiked my drink soon after. I remember leading the whole crew off to the after-after party across town in the cellar of the Beehive before it got really messy. The No-hands scene has played host to the “Ways of Looking” international photography festival after party and two turner prize winners.

Galleries are not boring places, they are dens of holy iniquity with a good makeover. You get to see behind the scenes if you can find the after parties. They have a crusty cliquey surface with a jammy centre of unconditional love underneath. Turn up to the previews; just watch out for the swingers.

I’m dragging burning coffee down my gullet and forcing some kind of kick start into my head as I write this... whisky.  The gent sitting across from me doesn’t appreciate me reading aloud as I type. God damn bastard won’t see me coming next time.  

They wouldn’t laugh at my stories of failed micro genocide in 1 in 12. God damn hippy vegans deserve all they get... not that I’m singling out Vegans, I mean some of my best friends are Vegans, and I definitely would piss on them if they were on fire but Jesus they are so fucking right on n’ holier than thou with their born again atheism and anarchic  anti politic.  

They have a wicked club and do the best punk alternative scene I have ever come across. An internationally famous stage at the 1 in 12 down Albion Street; PJ Harvey was turned down because she enjoys a bit of blood sports.  Me too; I’ve been thinking of new types of Alternative Urban blood sports recently... like grey squirrel baiting... could do it with a very small cage and a lot of pissed off squirrels. I hear of plans to release a lorry load of cats into Centenary Square. About 5000 captured street cats, some rock salt and a sawn off shot gun should do it. This Christmas I want to achieve my dream and get a sled pulled by ferrets, about 30 angry ferrets, and go hunting for small yappy type pets.  Like a deranged Santa Claus dressed with the frozen carcases of Yorkshire terriers to hand out to naughty children at the Christmas Market.

Yeah 1 in 12, do great music, great food on a Saturday and have the cheapest bar this side of the eighties; they even do Buckfast on Tap. To help me deal with this scene I have created a cocktail I call the fucked-fast that demands 4 shots of cheap whiskey, 150 ml of Buckfast and Tabasco sauce to taste.

Why does the best art grow on the edge of a shithole?

For god sake follow this link.

Artistic urban permaculture:  New cultural movements and scenes grow like mould. The bread makers see it as poison and disinfect it with their bleach and scrub it with their by-proxy obsessive top down structures. I prefer to see these cultures as medicines or at least a fine drug. They inoculate and recycle the worn out structures of humanity purging in an alchemic process that turns the dross to nectar. New cultural movements raise our expectations showing us visions that allow us to take flight. Be careful though, if you get too high you’ll jump off a building, you’ll burn your wings or turn into an orange and peel yourself. Fuck that: we were born to die and I celebrate that big burn right here right now. Glow bright and fly high cause when a million years shall come to pass what does it matter if we live long or die young? 

Here’s the clincher... if we didn’t try to manage our creatives or hem them in or silo them or try to define them then I firmly believe they would self regulate. Definitions and measurements are empirical. We do the same to the arts as we do to our farming. Eradicate variety, find strong breeds with high yields and promote those to the exclusion of all else. I’m fed up of waxing granny smiths tits; it strictures our cultural evolution.

Dick.